Go on, I bid, nor stop to care for me
By saving what I cease to care about,
The courtly name and pride of circumstance—
The name you 'll pick up and be cumbered with
Just for the poor parade's sake, nothing more;
Just that the world may slip from under you—
Just that the world may cry, "So much for him—
The man predestined to the heap of crowns:
There goes his chance of winning one, at least!"
Nor. The world!